Rejection.

AMERICA.



Oh hello.
Have you ever wondered what the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer is like after their Peace Corps Service is over?

No? You haven't?

Me either.

For those of you that do not know, a Peace Corps Volunteer, following the close of their service, graduates to Returned Peace Corps Volunteer status. Better known in the Peace Corps World as an RPCV. So make sure you call me “Laura the RPCV” next time you run into me. You may also call me, if you feel so inclined, Laura the Unemployed RPCV or Laura the best RPCV Babysitter ever in the world (← I really like that one.)

I've heard several of my friends/acquaintances pronounce the words “With Peace Corps Volunteer on your resume you'll get a job, no problem.” Or words similar to that statement. And believe it or not! This is a gigantic misconception.

Guess what!? It is a problem. It's NOT easy to get a job. And I'm talking: it's not easy to get a job that is even a pinch meaningful. A job that won't make you wish you never did Peace Corps in the first place because cleaning up the Starbucks restroom is not the kind of job you saw yourself taking on after representing The United States of America for two years by picking bugs out of your breakfast and interrupting your excruciatingly hot evening run to poop in the rice paddies on a fairly frequent basis. Oh, you don't think those are transferable skills? Pooping in holes is not a transferable skill? Pooping next to the grazing cows? Pooping all night long? Pooping your pants on an 8 hour bus ride? Being pooped on by a one year old? Am I talking about poop too much?


Huh.


I'm sorry. I guess I don't really know what's normal anymore.

Beau Loves Toilets & Toilet Humor.


Being an RPCV, in my experience, has been a lot like the time immediately following college graduation. It was a very difficult and maddening time for me. No job. Living with parents. Feeling useless and hopeless. Directionless.

Luckily, almost immediately after I returned to the US, I had a job, a temporary job but an awesome job, nonetheless. I have worked for my dear friend Jeffrey Nistler for 10 years now (I count my 2 years away because I can) and he has always been there for me and allowed me to tag along on jobs that don't really require more than himself because he is just the best. Having my job at Nistler Farms right away allowed me to transition back into my life in America pretty smoothly. It was almost like I had never been gone only somehow I magically acquired a handheld computer that could fit into my pocket and for some odd reason millions of condominiums took root over night and grew to the size of Jack's bean stock throughout all of Minneapolis. So that was weird.

At Nistler Farms.


And then there was the never-ending question “So Laura, what are your plans now? What's the next step?”

“NONE OF YOUR BEES WAX! I HAVE NO PLAN! I AM PLANLESS. I AM A BROKEN WOMAN CHILD!” Is what I wanted to say.


But I held those feelings deep down inside of me, beneath the folds of my small intestines and pretended that I was actually going to really finally finish applying to grad school to get my Master's of Social Work. Because that's what people wanted to hear. People want to hear that I've got my shit together and that I am so well adjusted and I did such a great job being a Peace Corps Volunteer and I am a fully functioning adult now living with my parents in my childhood bedroom not actually feeling excited about the idea of going back to school just yet...or ever?
And I was too afraid to start applying for more permanent jobs because I feared rejection. AND FOR GOOD REASON! The job search is full of rejection. It's even worse than dating. You will send your resume along with a well thought out and beautifully written cover letter into the ether and not much later it gets sucked into that black hole that I've always secretly feared after taking an astronomy class my freshmen year of college that I amazingly didn't fail. But black holes, man. I don't want to get caught near one of those suckers.

I am all about run-on sentences right now. Run-on, my friend. Run-on.

BEAU. Stopping to sniff the flowers.


And this is why I only applied to 1 (read: one) job within the first 2 (read: two) months of being home. And that one job I applied to, I didn't hear back from until a month later when they informed me that the position was filled. I never even bothered calling to see what my status was. I took no initiative because I knew rejection was just around the corner. I avoided confrontation because rejection was inevitable.

And then, sort of out of nowhere, I applied to Target. I thought maybe it was time to “reward” myself. Get paid to do a job. To get paid maybe more than what my work and effort was worth, even. I applied to become an Executive Team Leader (this is a glorified title for an assistant manager, FYI) at a Target store. This position is very well paid. I was shocked. And I heard from Target immediately. As in, I sent in my application and resume on a Thursday afternoon and heard back that evening to schedule my first of what would be 5 (read: FIVE) interviews. I took this as an excellent sign. I'm going to be enjobbed in no time and get paid big big $dollars$ with benefits up the wazoo AND a Target discount, bitches!



FACE PLANT. Not the case at all. Five interviews (three of which were god-awful phone interviews) down the road and I never heard back from Target. I was dragged around like a dead dog on a leash for over a month with the ALMIGHTY TARGET and they never even gave me the courtesy of a computer generated email saying I was not awarded the job of ultimate corporate ass-kisser of the year, or whatever.

Oh, it's okay. It's just my life and livelihood you're kicking around and stringing along for far too long. No worries. I'll be fine.

BEAU. Triumphant in dog life.


In hindsight, thank goodness I'm not working there. I am not Target material. It was clearly not meant to be. I was meant to suffer longer than that. Unemployment loves me and wants me to stay entombed with it for as long as possible. And maybe longer. Unemployment wants me to wallow with it in the darkness to which it sleeps.

Following the rejection from Target, I got my ass into gear. Being removed from Facebook was several blessings built into one. Suddenly I am a productive person. Coffee became my co-pilot. He wore those old school goggles and a scarf; it was really cute. At this point in time, I have applied to an unknown number of jobs. I haven't really kept track. I'm just pooping the applications and cover letters out like an industrial printing machine. One job in particular I believed was a job MADE FOR ME. I had an awesome phone interview with them. I was actually a rock star and not bullshitting them like I did for Target. How could they NOT want me to work for them?





And then....silence.

Silence is cruel cruel company. Silence is a killer.

With all of my unstructured free time, I find myself over thinking everything, thinking too much, and over analyzing everything I said in the interview and wondering how I turned them off. Maybe my mistake was having the interview on a Friday so they had an entire weekend to forget about me. But how could they forget about me? It's just impossible. How can they not see my value? I HAVE VALUE!!! I am dying. LITERALLY dying. No, not literally. Literarily dying, yes.

With my excess free time, I end up watching a lot of nonsense on the Netflix. I mostly stick with stand-up comedian/comedienne performances because I can pretend that they are speaking directly to me. We are just friends hanging out casually talking about how annoying everyone is. I am best friends with Louis C.K, Patton Oswalt, Mike Birbiglia, and Reggie Watts. Don't be jealous. What we have is special. Another thing that comes from these friendships is inspiration. I started thinking to myself “Self, you could totally do stand-up. Just be your weird self and people will follow what you are and what you are saying and instantaneously love you. One day you too could have a special on the Netflix.”

Late at night, still shaking from caffeine consumed hours earlier, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and begin performing the genesis of what will be my burgeoning stand-up comedian career. I talk about nose hairs and make-up and pretending to be a girl mostly because that's what I do whenever I'm in the bathroom staring at myself for too long. I'M HILARIOUS! I am literally the funniest human being in the Universe. Hollywood needs me in their already overly concentrated pot of not-actually-funny-people trying to make it big.

BEAU & Laurax. Dynamic Duo.


Unemployment also breeds a lot of selfie photo taking which is mostly despicable. And then, in my own self consciousness and embarrassment, I aim my miniature computer at my dog Beau. I'm hoping to turn him into an Instagram sensation. So far, it's not taking but I will remain patient with my dog's blossoming fame and subsequent fortune. It's quite an injustice that cats seem to get so much more attention and affection in the internet world than dogs and I'm trying to fight back. One dogstagram at a time...

The children I babysit twice a week are also frequent subjects in my Instagram art. It kind of boggles my mind that the 15 month year old kid knows exactly what I'm doing when I point my iPhone toward him. He puts on this cheezy smile face where his eyes become small slits and his mouth takes up the rest of the free space on his face. He has it down to an art and it gets me every time. Serious swooning. And for a split second, I understand why people keep make babies. I just hope his mom doesn't mind me pasting her children's faces all over the interwebs...Maybe they'll become Instagram sensations. You never know.


Babinstagram stardom will be mine.




What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm still unemployed.

Baby Mic Drop.

So this is goodbye?

Classic Cambodia


I just collected my first ever stool sample. And it was awkward. A little bit embarrassing even though I was alone in the bathroom. I felt like a scientist. But it was also gross. I mean, we're talking POOP here, people. Fortunately, I get to repeat the process two more times before I leave Cambodia so I can work on mastering the art of stool sample collection. (10,000 hours away from becoming a stool sampling master!!!! JAZZ HANDS!!!)

Another thing I am attempting to master is the art of saying goodbye. My other PCV friends keep saying that they're “so bad at goodbyes” and they're not sure if they're doing it right but then I ask them “who is really good at saying goodbyes anyway?” Is that a thing? Something you'd put in an OKCupid profile?

Somethings you're good at:

Drinking a gallon of water in 2 minutes
Playing sitar
Saying “Goodbyes”

Maybe some people are more skilled at knowing the right things to say at the very last goodbye. Maybe some people just let their tears do the talking. Maybe some people just sneak away in the dark of night, avoiding the goodbyes all together. Or maybe some of us lack the right words → but are plentiful with awkward half sentences and have the intense urge to cry but stifle our own emotions because crying in public is something we've been told is just weird in Khmer culture (or maybe even in American culture a little bit?)

Either way, I fall into the latter category.

Biking By Grandpa Goodbye


I've been counting down to this moment for a long time now and because of this, I have built up my “goodbye to the village” moment in my head a lot. I have also built up my “Hello America!” moment in my head way too much. And now that I'm actually leaving, I think I will be disappointed in the lack of fanfare and parades I was expecting my friends in the village to organize for me. And so this last week in the village has left me feeling kind of empty. It's a hard emotion to pinpoint. People aren't reacting the way I expected them to react when I tell them I'm leaving but how should they react? Should they be bawling their eyes out, pulling out their hair, falling to their knees, hanging onto my leg begging me not to leave as I drag them along the dirt road? YES. Absolutely, yes.

And to my surprise, this is not happening. As my friend and fellow PCV Maria said it “Everyone in the village is business as usual.” Because everyone here is still working, doing their thing to make it another day, and making sure to eat enough rice to maintain their power. But me? I've finished my two year stint as a Peace Corps Volunteer so it's time to go home. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am? Not quite. After two years of struggling and not feeling accomplished, I finally feel like I am equipped to actually start doing my job well. My language skills are....ehhh, so-so. But I finally feel like I have a good rhythm and rapport with the health center staff, enough so that I could feel comfortable asking (forcing?) certain staff members to help me work on projects. And it pains me to think that I'm leaving now, when I now have the confidence to really do something meaningful and sustainable. Two years is not enough time to make any kind of significant developmental progress. Two years is especially not long enough for one lone PCV in one small village that doesn't really know what to do with a PCV. But, on the other hand, TWO YEARS is long time to be away from home. Sure sure, in the large scope of things, if you're looking at an entire lifetime, 2 years isn't really that much but ask any PCV while in the nitty gritty middle parts of their Peace Corps service, TWO YEARS is so so so so so so long. It can feel like an eternity.

And then you get to the point of your Close of Service and you think “Wait! Nononono. I just got started...I...I haven't accomplished what I thought I was originally going to accomplish when I signed up for Peace Corps yet!!!”

Regardless of the struggles I've had here, this place, Cambodia, has become home. And it will be weird going back to America and going back for good. It won't be like my mini-vacations around Cambodia, or Malaysia, or India, where I return after a week or two. It's for good. Yeah sure, I plan on coming back to Cambodia someday in the far off future but the future is so fuzzy and unknown to me that it could be a really really long time till I return.

PP Street madness.


The fact that I don't know when the next time I'll sit at the dinner table with my host family, fighting off hungry cats and dogs, listening to my host mom tell a really funny story that I can't follow; this makes me very sad. I won't have my dirty and dusty market across the street from my house anymore. I won't have my overly sweetened ice coffee for 25 cents anymore. I have actually tolerated a few screaming “hellos” this week because I know I won't get those on a daily basis once I'm back home. And when I'm back, I have to find a REAL JOB that expects me to show up everyday and stay there for 8 HOURS!? That is just madness. What? No nap time? But I just ate lunch!
Adjusting back to the American lifestyle will be harder than it was adjusting to the Cambodian lifestyle. This I know.

All week long, I've felt strange. Drop a cold on top of that strangeness and I am up late at night, restless, tossing and turning, throwing my pillows across the room in a rage, unable to sleep or breathe properly. I want to cry but can't. It feels like something needs to get out...I mean, other than the never-ending snot marathon coming out of my nose. I don't know why I can't cry but I guess the levees just haven't been broken yet (when they do, you might wanna keep your distance.) And maybe I'm subconsciously waiting for the right (or absolutely worst) moment to let it all out.

Just like my feelings before I came to Cambodia; it didn't feel real. The weeks leading up to my journey to Cambodia didn't feel like a reality to me at the time. The moment it finally felt really real, that I was finally in Cambodia as a Peace Corps Volunteer, was when I found a chicken foot in a dish during lunch while still training in Phnom Penh. At that moment, I was not ready to encounter a chicken foot (skin, claws, and all) on my plate. But now, LAY IT ON ME! Yeah, sure, throw that cow brain in the soup! I'm not gonna eat the cow brain but I respect that other people find it delicious brain food. I respect that.

I gave the chicken foot to Neal, now he has chicken legs.


I will be leaving my village tomorrow but I know some parts of me will never leave. As much as I sometimes fight it, I will truly miss Cambodia and all of its wonderful scorching sunshine and flaws.

In closing:

Laurax Before (1st full day in Cambodia):

Who wants short hair again???


Laurax After:


Oh laura, you've aged.

Clouds.

Advice or something like it for the Future Ks of Peace Corps Cambodia or whoever feels like taking some free advice...or something like advice.


CLOUDS!!!!!


You guys,

There were times during my service when I allowed dark clouds to cover moments and interactions that could have been very very meaningful to myself and to others around me. Dark clouds, I know, cheesy and ominous, right? Whatever. Clouds are cool. I have allowed my anxiety (big dark cloud) and fear (another big dark cloud) to get in the way of having many rewarding moments during my service. That's not to say that I haven't had rewarding moments or a rewarding service. Because I have! I am, however, learning this late in the game and finally seeing things more clearly (I can see clearly now, the rain is gone....ehh? Ehh?...yeah. Okay.) I am finally letting go of a lot of my insecurities and frustrations (but don't get me wrong, quite a few insecurities and frustrations still exist. There are still days that I would like to peacefully punch people in the face...) I accumulated a lot of those (insecurities and frustrations) during my two years of service and I feel good finally letting go of some of them. Maybe this is because I know I'm going home really soon and feel happy about that but the fact that I am in Cambodia AND happy is a big deal. Being HAPPY in Cambodia is so much better than a lot of shit I've put myself through in this country. And that's not to say it will be smooth sailing until August 7th, but I think this will be my best months of my service because of my attitude. “Better late than never...” you say? Yes, I guess so. But maybe I can spare a small piece of advice to the future PCVs yet to come to Cambodia, the Kingdom of Wonder.

Some of this, these dark storm-boding clouds (hey it's raining right now!) is inevitable as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It's hard not to act strange and awkward in such a strange and awkward new environment. It's natural. So don't let it get to you; don't beat yourself up about it....to an extent. At some point, you have to just accept the strange and awkward environment. Endure the EXTREME discomfort. Feel misunderstood CONSTANTLY. Feel depressed OFTEN. Feel isolated, alone ALL THE TIME. Just let it happen. It's part of the experience. And if you let that happen, maybe from there, you will eventually let go and let yourself be accepted and loved within your community. It is MORE than possible in Cambodia. It is....INEVITABLE. (I love that word. For better or worse. It's gonna happen so you better be ready. The Khmer people will love you.)


I mean, how could you deny a face like this?


Like any relationship, it can't be completely perfect. And my relationship with Cambodia has been far from perfect. How do you expect to grow as a person if you want or expect things to stay stagnant? And isn't stagnant kinda a nasty word? Do you really want that word describing your relationship with anyone or anything? I don't. Eew. I think of dirty-nearly-dried-up pools of water, filled with pee and garbage juices (sick right?) Stagnant is not pretty in any way, shape, or form so why would you want a relationship of yours to become stagnant? Well I, for one, think that is what I was battling a lot during my service. I couldn't seem to have a solid good day. Or so I thought and dramatized in my mind. It would start out bad and just keep getting worse. Or it would start out great and then just plummet to the ground at 100kph. There were many times when I would ask myself or other volunteers “Why can't there ever be a HAPPY MEDIUM in Cambodia?” It felt impossible to me. You were either not pooping or you were pooping way too much (like seriously WAY too much. Like how is this humanly possible too much.) It was either raining too much or not enough (usually it's not enough.) For some reason, I wanted to live a more stagnant life in Cambodia because that would have been easier to handle, easier to understand, and easier to accept. But something important that I realized was how one good day, out of 30 bad days in Cambodia was SO WORTH IT. The good days in Cambodia are hilarious, awesome, and rewarding. So suck up that stagnant water and just let it happen! Ick! Ish! No spit it out. That's disgusting. Just enjoy the good days and possibly more will follow. Like, for example, you're sitting in your room with your fan blowing in your face and you see a mosquito floating around; the little bastard. And you go for him and BAM!!! You kill that em-effer in the first shot!!! Best day ever had.

And to be completely honest, I became APATHETIC, also a nasty word, during my Peace Corps Service. And I am embarrassed because of it. I let my fear and anxiety get the best of me during a great big chunk of my service and I'm seeing now, with less than 3 months left, how regrettable that decision was. It was not an immediately conscious decision on my part to isolate myself, but either way, it happened and I feel a great amount of regret because of it. But I continue to ask myself, what is the point of the emotion REGRET? Really? I'd like to know. I would like a knowledgeable and respected human being to explain to me a good reason for the emotion “regret” to exist because I can't necessarily think of a good reason off the top of my head. Any biological benefit to it?...But I digress, as usual.


91 year old Yay that doesn't wanna hear you piss and moan.


Along with my new found happiness (on more days than not) in Cambodia, I have also realized that I need to NOT BEAT MYSELF UP about how some of my service went. It happened already so I am learning to let go and focus on the now. Focusing on the NOW is something I've always had a hard time doing. I like to rehash things that have happened in the past but it's not healthy or productive. I need to just see what I did and know that I should act differently in the future. Rehashing shit ain't worth it. Unless it's leftover hashbrowns that you are refrying for lunch or something. I will allow that.

I am finally allowing myself to see the little things that I have contributed to my community. I have always cared much more about relationships in my life than my successes in work or school. When I didn't do well on a test, I would shrug and say “well, I didn't really study for this so I guess that's what I get.” But if I said something to a friend that upset them, I wouldn't be able to let it go. It would sit in my brain and circle around and around and around with worry. Now, I am seeing the relationships I've developed in my community and that is what I think truly matters. And I don't give a rats back-end how anyone else feels about that. My pig ladies, my noodle lady, my coffee lady, my nail and hair lady and her kids, the moto-taxi guys, the staff at the health center, my host family and their employees, the people that wave to me on my runs, the lady across from the high school, the guy that fixed my flat that one time, the bus lady...and I could go on. It is pretty cool to think that a little village in the middle of Cambodia is my second home and that people will remember me and talk about me once I'm good and gone. I hope most of it is good stuff.


And after a hard day, you might see something like this.



There was one day I was on a run and the Beyonce song “I Was Here” came on. It's NOT a good running song AT ALL but she was talking about making her mark on the world and making a difference in at least one person's life and that's all that mattered to her. That would be proof enough that she was here on this Earth. Or at least that's the way I understand the song. Anyway, regardless of the song's lack of runnability, it got me excited and inspired because I think I have accomplished what Beyonce was singing about. Even if I made a difference with only a handful of people or even just one person here, it was totally worth all the ups and downs that I endured during my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I guess I'm a little proud of myself.

In conclusion, let those clouds come and go during your service. Being there is the most important part. And clouds oftentimes bring monsoons in Cambodia and that means it's not going to be hot as balls outside...at least temporarily. Those clouds are gonna come whether you like it or not so you might as well just enjoy some sugary ice coffee at the market and get teased by the moto-taxi guys.


My moto-taxi guy friends drinking coffee.

a sense of place

My senior year of college I took an art course titled Topics. By the name itself you wouldn't think much of it but it was a coveted course and many enthusiastic art majors yearned to take it in their final year of overpriced highfalutin private liberal arts education. The draw of this course is that it is a precursor to your final senior art project in which your art is displayed in the pristine galleries of St Olaf College's famous Dittmann Art Center – a state of the art art facility with one of the best and fanciest ventilation systems you'll find in the nation. Topics is basically a semester long course to either test-drive an idea you have for your final senior show or to do something completely wacky and maybe piss off some people in the process. Or maybe I was the only one that wanted to piss some people off but I felt like it was my right, okay?


A Canoe in the Gallery, normal normal


An added mystery about Topics is just that; the topic. And the professor holds all the power to decide what the year's Topic will be (every year is a new topic.) John Saurer was one of my favorite professors up until that point because he liked my drawings and prints. (I mean, who could blame him? I'm like the most amazing artist ever in the world, amen.) He had a goofy demeanor and manner of speech. One thing he said all the time which I often repeat...to myself...is “Isn't that nice?” and he'd say it as he was carefully pointing at someone's interesting drawing. His curly mop and intense eyes only added to the effect. He is the quintessential “Art Teacher.” However I could say that about every single one of my art professors. There was the dreamy art professor that every girl (and boy) looked at all googily-eyed while he explained power tool safety in sculpture class, there was the turtleneck-sandals-with-black-socks-wearing professor that loved everything ever in the world especially if it vibrated with bright colors, and there was an art history professor that spoke with a such a slow droning robotic like voice that it put you right back to sleep during your 8AM class (I mean, come on! And the lights were always dimmed for the powerpoint presentation. This was before I knew how to drink coffee...)


The one and only Professor John Saurer



Prof J. Saurer, St. Colin Weaver, and Dreamy Prof Irve Dell


And back to the point. I had high hopes for the topic. We all did. We were all anxious to know the topic and create mind-blowing art that so perfectly expressed the topic through our own eyes that we'd simultaneously start a brand new groundbreaking art movement in the process. Because isn't that what every art major wants?

And then Professor John Saurer stands in front of the chalk board and slowly writes:

A....


Sense...



...of.....




…....Place.

Okay, I'm sorry but, what the feck? I was not impressed. My friend Loocis and I were not impressed (but we were kinda the misfits of the already misfit ridden art major scene.) I guess I never really took a lot of time to think about “a sense of place” or “my sense of place” in the world, in life, in the universe.

I do, however, have an extreme passion and love for the best place ever: the great city of Minneapolis. I have a strong sense of Minneapolis Patriotism. Does that count for “a sense of place”? For a while I made a point of saying I was from Minneapolis “proper” because there are many imposters out there claiming to be from “The Twin Cities.” But the problem here is that when some smear says they are from “The Twin Cities” they usually mean they are from some crumby eyesore of a suburb like Hopkins or even worse, Minnetonka. If you would, please, take a moment to think about what the word “twin” means you'd remember that it is something containing or consisting of two matching or corresponding parts. TWO. Not two plus 20 inferior, sidewalk-less parts. So let's just stick to “The Twin Cities” representing the two cities only, Minneapolis and St Paul.
And I'm done with my rant.
Maybe.


A sense of place can be good...


I was feeling awfully snarky my senior year of college and my response to the topic, A Sense of Place, was that I transcend place. I'm so just fancy, aren't I? I don't have a single place. I don't need a single place. I don't get attached. I just ride on. And I depicted my transcendence with detailed drawings of bicycle parts and my trademark doodles intertwined together. Aaaaand a ridiculous bike sculpture that was thrown away, probably by the groundskeeper when he tired of mowing around the awkward “art” piece in the lawn. John Sauer thought the drawings were “nice” but had a hard time grasping my interpretation of A Sense of Place.

Pah! Typical! Adults never understand. My artist's statement was a direct jab at him and a pretty vulgar one at that.
I mentioned my hyena pseudo-penis, if that says anything...


Ridiculous bike sculpture buried in the snow.

the bicycle drawings.


I've grownup a leeettle bit since that attempt at rebellion.And I've been away from home for almost 2 years now. What being away from home for this long has taught me is that I DO have a place. I have a great sense of place and it's home.
Minneapolis.
My parent's house.
In the perfect South Minneapolis neighborhood right on the Minnehaha Parkway.
Home is beckoning me. Home is haunting me in my dreams. When I have idle moments during the day (let's be honest, the whole day is a big idle moment) I imagine my neighborhood. Very particular parts of my neighborhood that for some reason stick out more than others. The hill along the creek that nestles all the geese and ducks. The parkway in my front yard. The bridge that my friend Annie and I climbed on like a jungle gym all summer long when we were still wearing matching pink overalls. I imagine taking my dog Beau for walks all the time. I imagine swimming at the little beach on Lake Nokomis, trying to re-re-teach myself to swim. Walking by the Mississippi River where the Minnehaha Creek spews out into it, the water disconcertingly foamy. Running down the path toward Lake Hiawatha; no feral dogs to worry about.

the creek and ducks.



Mr. Beau takes a walk!

You guys, I'm really excited to go home. I never realized how important home was to me until I left it completely.


The Minnehaha Falls.




Minnehaha and Hiawatha, I presume.

p. diddy

Public Service Announcement:

I am a card carrying fan of the squattie pottie. Are you familiar with this primarily Eastern world essential piece of water closet equipment? I am pretty sure the last time we met, [put link to blog post here] I was discussing a problem of mine that I had in the bathroom so maybe I already explained the squattie pottie beyond the reaches of whatever you ever really needed to know?

I disagree. I don't think you know enough about the squattie pottie. Until you try the squattie pottie yourself and then install your own squattie pottie in your personal water closet in your American abode do you really know enough about the squattie pottie. Ya hear? And let me emphasize the importance of a butt sprayer. BUTT SPRAYER. You need it in your life. You will not realize how disgusting the idea of toilet paper, alone in sticky bathroom situations, truly is until you ditch the T.P. for 2 years and indulge in a handheld shower for your bunghole.

The butt sprayer is something that can be a tricky tool or perhaps, in some instances, a weapon to your very own derrière. You must test the intensity of a butt sprayer before you put it into action. If you don't test it out, you could end up giving yourself a personal enema and you don't want that, now do you?

But I'm not really here to warn you about these potential squattie pottie scenarios. I'm not really good at advice. I am good at making mistakes that I hope no one ever replicates in human history. And if history repeats itself, I have proof here on this blog that I did indeed warn the public, at least the "Laurax doodles in Khmer" blog reading public. Liability expunged?

Very much in the same way my previous blog post began, I was enjoying a few brewskis with my friends in the comfort of my home. (And now the people are wondering "Does Laura just drink beer in Cambodia?" It's debatable. But in my defense, this was the beginning of Khmer New Year which is an endless celebration for some.) I also had my good friend Stacy there as a wing woman/buffer/BAMF/etc. So we are being over fed an array of beer drinking foods, something Khmer people like to call "clime" (these are my best phonetics.) In America I think good "clime" would be potato chips, cheetos...uuhhhhh....pizza? It's been a while. What do Americans eat while drinking beer nowadays? I have no idea. "Clime" in Cambodia usually includes an array of meats and sauces to dip the meats in. And the ultimate Khmer snack: Pongtia Goan (some people think it should be spelled like this: pong tia koon ពងទាកូន <- Khmer all the way, baby.) You can click on that link to find the all knowing wikipedia page about it. I was turned on to pongtia goan, or partially developed duck embryo (uh, yeah I know...) somewhere around November 2013. I was a late bloomer but have not looked back since then. The main draw for me are the garnishes that accompany the egg - a chili garlic sauce, a pepper-salt-MSG-lime sauce, and little green leaves. "Eat, don't look" is my strategy. Also, "don't knock it till you try it."


Partially developed duck embryo. Try it, you'll like it!


And the night is full of cheers, laughter, and eating until it's time to break the seal. We reteach our friends what "break the seal" means and that that is what I am about to embark on. I walk around a couple of construction trucks to one of my family's 9 toilets. The squattie pottie awaits me, but has an unidentifiable object floating in it which I try to flush down with buckets of water. It doesn't go down so I decide to pee anyway. I complete my mission and try to flush the unidentifiable object down again. A couple of buckets poured down but the unidentifiable object is standing its ground. I stop and finally take a hard look at the unidentifiable object (did I mention it's dark in the stall? for some reason there's only a light outside of the toilet and not actually in the toilet.) The unidentifiable object is breathing? I get down and analyze the object and it is, indeed, a baby chick. A baby chicken is submerged in the squattie pottie toilet water. Gasping for air after I water boarded it a couple of times. OH. MY. GOD.

And what is the most logical thing to do? Reach into the squattie pottie water and scoop up the baby chick. I carry my now identifiable little winged friend and present him to my friends. In a somewhat squealing voice I say "Look at what I just peed on!" I think I said this in both English and attempted to explain what I did in Khmer. Once everyone completely understood the situation (in which I reacted to with great exaggerating hysterics) everyone laughed at me. My host mom told me to put the chick down and covered it with a food cover so the dogs wouldn't try to eat it after its already near death experience.

I went back to the water cisterns and quietly giggled to myself at the ridiculousness of what I just did. I felt like I had done something that changed my life for eternity. I could never turn back or fully recover from this incident. My life changed forever the moment I peed on a baby chick.

The excitement dulled down and we continued our small celebration. But my thoughts still strayed back to my baby chick. And that was when I decided to name it P. Diddy.

The lesson I learned in all of this was that squattie potties, as perfect as they are for doing your business, have dangers that are not always visible to the naked eye. And in conclusion, please PLEASE install a squattie pottie but please PLEASE, make sure you baby chick proof it immediately after installation.


Grown up P.Diddy.

what time is it?

It wasn't a normal fitful night of sleep. Surprisingly, my body wasn't hot enough to induce an infernal rage, a sleepy-heavy-eyed infernal lazy rage. (I like this term “Lazy Rage.” I will now use it on the regular.) It wasn't the heat that kept me awake. And thankfully, it wasn't seasonal allergies encasing my entire throat with the most irritating itch, so itchy it wakes me up from deep sleep, and a lazy rage comes over me and I take a pink pill with a few gulps of water and pass out again. It wasn't the awful seasonal allergies that kept me awake. It was seasonal diarrhea.

I was up, like clockwork, once every hour through the night hustling back and forth from my room to the toilet. I am currently cursed with a long-lasting bout of diarrhea. (Oh, did I mention this blog post is packed full of too much information? Oh, yeah, it is. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier.) On the bright side, this is a fairly tolerable case of diarrhea to stomach (see what I did there?) because in-between the hourly water closet trips, I don't feel like I'm dying inside. I don't feel like my internal organs are slowly melting away....or better yet being eaten alive by a colony of foreign bacteria like termites demolishing your cherished cabin by the lake. It's not like that.

This is what my insides look like


This morning, the alarm clock on my PC issued Samsung cellphone rudely interrupted the last bit of solid sleep I had the fortune of retrieving during my schizo night poop/sleep schedule. I thought my cellphone and I were close enough that he would consider the state I was in and give me that last hour to sleep. You think you know someone....
I played my cards as I'm accustomed to and ignored that alarm until, of course, it was time to poop again. Curiously, it was still pretty dark out at 6AM but my thoughts slowly faded into more sleep; my body behaved until I really had to get out of bed. I startled myself out of that final slumber, read my phone clock with a grumble of disappointment – 7:18AM already? Really? Gosh dangit.

I don't like being behind schedule regardless of how my insides are feeling. I like relaxing mornings where I can take my time. Rushing is the worst. But I accepted my reality and finally left my house at 7:35AM. But hey, it appears that everyone else is running a little behind schedule and I take comfort in this. “You're okay, Laura” I told myself, “your coffee lady isn't even set up yet...now that is weird.” Eh, maybe everyone was up late (late as in 9PM) drinking last night just like me? Is it another holiday? I can never keep track/don't bother keeping track. My favorite breakfast lady was setting up very slowly so I settled for the lesser noodles. I smiled at all the old people eating noodles along with me. “I love old Khmer people” I thought to myself.

Noodles were successfully slurped into my precarious belly and I momentarily feared that the diarrhea I battled all night long would hit me again and I'd risk pooping my pants while walking to the health center. ON-WARD-LAURA!!! I stopped at my coffee spot and looked at my clock again – 7:55AM, no time to sit and enjoy the mediocre ice coffee. I told my coffee lady I'd take my coffee in a bag because it was almost 8AM. And this surprised her “Whoa! Leuun! (fast)”

My ever loyal and lovely coffee lady


But some guy quietly sipping his coffee at the coffee spot claimed that it was only 7:09AM. His fancy smartphone said so. Outright, I told him his phone was wrong. My coffee lady loyally took my side. Smartphone man asked a gentleman eating Khmer noodles in the stall next door what time his watch said and HIS clock was wrong too!

. . .

“What the eff is going on here? Is it Cambodian daylight savings day or some shit? A weird Khmer holiday where time makes no sense? It's possible with so many holidays in such a small country... Either way, I took my bag of coffee and went along my merry way. I ran into one of my friends that I drank Ganzberg German premium beer(please click on that link to experience the greatness of Ganzberg Beer) with last night. He said “sabaii! (happy!)” we shared a laugh and carried on in opposite directions. Hey! No hints of pants-pooping yet! Everything's coming up Laurax!

The kids at the primary school were collecting water from the pond with small bottles. A gaggle of girls followed the leader out onto a log to fetch their water. I never have my camera when I really need it.

I turned into the driveway of the health center and found it all locked up still. What the....? Oh well. I'ma do my thang anyway and I go about my morning routine of preparing the cooler with vaccinations and settle into my book. ...Curiosity peaked again and I decided to text my friend Margaret:

I flirted with Margaret AFTER this first text message, duh.



[What time is it?
It seems as though
everyone was up late
drinking last night.
This one guys phone
said it was only 710...]


Margaret responds:

[My phone says 718]


I looked at my phone and it read 8:09AM...uuhhhhhh wut?


FLASH!


And then it all came back to me. I was drinking with my friends last night (employees of my host family...friends by association) and during my second trip to the bathroom, pre-diarrhea escapades, I accidentally dropped my phone in the “bawee” (k'bawee? I've never really bothered to figure out how to say the word correctly) which is the bucket we use to awkwardly wash our bums while using the squattie potty. Immediately I snatched my fully-immersed phone, miraculously still working, from the water. I opened it up to check its insides and told my friends what I did. One of the guys took it and quickly dried if off with the air pump thingy. When we put the phone back together, I remember thinking to my self “Self, remember to set the clock correctly later.” And in the meantime I made an extremely rough estimate on the time and punched it in.

However, in my hazy Ganzberg state of mind, I did not remember to remember. And in turn, I basically called other people liars for having the wrong time. It couldn't possibly be MY phone that was the issue. But you know what? The night of diarrhea and my bizaaro morning of confusion was all worth it for the fun night I had that caused the problem (and my denseness) in the first place.

Yesterday my host mom was worried about me and my ongoing bathroom problem. She heard rumors that some random person went to a wedding, ate wedding food, then later had a stomach ache, followed by a head ache which was then followed by death. Since my host mom didn't want me to die, God bless her, she had me stay home to eat partially developed duck fetuses, various fried meats, and drink beer with 4 of her employees rather than go with the family to grandma's house to eat. I thought this was an interesting decision on her part but I allowed it.

Ganzberg, the more I drink the better I feel. Another amazing Ganzberg beer commercial to watch!


Her employees (friends by association) followed her strict orders that I eat all 4 duck fetuses and the various fried meats. I refused to eat all of it and asked them to help me. I ate only 2 duck fetuses. And we drank an unquantifiable (unquantifiable by me) number of Ganzberg German Premium beers. We told jokes, sang to each other (I dazzled them with Shakira and Beyonce hits), and I taught them American drinking phrases like “break the seal.” I also translated Khmer drinking phrases into English for them. “DRINK ALL!” It was this night of debauchery that I learned that I am older than every one of my drinking buddies, one of which I have historically called “boo” meaning uncle.

We ended the night with arm wrestling. I did not win.

According to German beer expert Bernd Kirsch, Ganzberg exacerbates diarrhea.

Laurax's 10 commandments of Life & Lurve*

*Love

Today I'm taking this blog to a whole 'nother level and it may seem weird and maybe not something other people want to read but I felt impelled to write it. I've divulged enough dirt about myself on this bloggy-thing so why not talk about relationships? But please, don't anyone go and have an anxiety attack now. I'm just going to talk about what I've learned about myself and relationships so far.

I have made major mistakes when it comes to relationships in my life (ummm, who hasn't?) Your 20s are meant to be a relationship trial phase, right? (...for some, at least.) You have to make mistakes and hopefully learn from them in order to know what's right for yourself and what you want with a partner. I've found that the plus side of being isolated in a village is I have hours upon hours of time to think about all those mistakes and analyze them down to the last embarrassingly idiotic detail. Things be gettin' beat like a dead horse over here. That poor dead horse.

Anyway, it hit me! Like a dead cat slapped across my face. (That poor dead cat.) While taking my post Insanity-workout-shower (Everyone! Be proud of me for actually showering after working out! Yay Laura!) I thought about yet another embarrassing and upsetting relationship mistake amidst scrubbing down with Old Spice body wash (best stuff ever, btw. I'd like to thank my Aunt Barb for sending it to me.) And I thought to myself “Laura, you can't compromise your own values and ideas (or sanity) in a relationship. And you can't ignore those red flags anymore.” Then I thought I'd write my own 10 commandments to keep in mind before I decide to step into uncharted relationship territory ever again. And for the record, I will be sailing no relationships through the sea of love anytime soon. So back off, suitors!

In reality I'm really just holding out on Rob Lowe. I know he's happily married and all but he really doesn't know what he's missing. Seriously. To me, Rob Lowe, you are perfect.



So! With no further ado...here they are!
Laurax's 10 Commandments of Life & Lurve:

1. Thou shall, first and foremost, recognize your own value, intelligence, and beauty. #flawless

2. Thou shall not enter a relationship just because you desire companionship. It especially does not work if the relationship is long-distance to begin with. #thinkwithyourbrain

3. Thou shall embrace being alone and loneliness as a time to find your true self and perhaps a new hobby. #happyalone

4.Thou shall not compromise your beliefs, values, ideas, dreams, or desires in or for a relationship. #dontbeadummy

5. Thou shall listen to your intuition; you are more perceptive than you think. If you think something is not right, take time to find what it is, where it comes from, and how it can be alleviated. #womenbepyschic

6. Thou shall acknowledge and address red flags in a relationship; thou shall not ignore red flags under any circumstance no matter how small they may seem.* #redflagsnonononononono

7. Thou shall consider the feelings and emotions of your other (if you have an “other” that is) before making rash decisions in a relationship. (This can be applied to all relationships in your life - family, friends, co-workers, etc.) #empathyiscool

8. Thou shall accept that happiness in life also comes with sadness; without pain and suffering you cannot experience great joy. #hurtssogood

9. Thou shall accept that every relationship comes with ups and downs and can never be perfect. #whatgoesupmustcomedown

10. Thou shall find what truly makes you happy and pursue that happiness with intention. #eatcookies


No.



*Okay. A word on red flags. As a former Sexual Assault Resource Network educator, a red flag is usually considered a warning sign that you are potentially in an unhealthy or abusive relationship. (Click on this link for more info on red flags.) In terms of my 10 commandments, I am referring to red flags as something that may compromise or squelch who I am; my beliefs, values, ideas, desires, etc. But according to my 10 commandments a red flag can, without question, also be a warning sign that my relationship is indeed unhealthy or abusive. But I guess if there are red flags that my personal beliefs or whatever are being compromised then that is a sign of an unhealthy relationship too. So yeah....I feel like I am rambling nonsensically. Aaaaaanyway.

Also, I am trying to make sure I am not being contradictory or confusing with #6 and #9. I think this is the hardest thing to pin down in a relationship: whether or not hard times and/or disagreements and fights are a part of the natural ups and downs versus red flags in a relationship. That, in essence, is why it's important to have that relationship trial phase, right? Learn the ropes, your ropes, a partners ropes. We've all got ropes we're just not always sure which ones are secure enough to hold our weight. And according to Jay-Z in his book “Decoded” contradiction is a part of being human. So whatevs. I'm gonna contradict myself all over this blog.

Do you completely disagree with or have anything to add to my 10 commandments? Enlighten me, please. Let's talk about this. I've got loads of free time. In the meantime, I will be eating oreos.
Oh, and obviously, these are my 10 commandments on life & lurve. Maybe you should write your own that fit to your life. I think it's important.

Oh my gawd, you're killing me. Rob Lowe.

Hello Contagion

The Culprits?



There is a short-lived feeling of celebrity that courses through the veins of many Peace Corps trainees the first time they hear the screaming “Hellos” of their adoring fans when they settle into their training villages. “They love us!” some may say as they rocket past a hoard of barefooted children running after the tuk-tuk full of “barangs.” (Barang being the generic term for foreigners here, literally meaning French in Khmer.)

The obsessive adoration from screaming children quickly dies down a week into training. Trainees begin to realize that screaming “Hello” to a barang is like a sixth sense for Khmer children. “Seriously, that kid was a full kilometer away from me and was already screaming “helloooooooooo!!!!” How do they do it?!” What is the goal of screaming “Hello” to the barangs? I can tell you right here – right now, it is not to get the expected response of “Hello” in return because they continue to scream “Hello” many times following the initial response.

Scheming...



Trainees become Volunteers and the word “Hello” becomes slightly...tainted. The first step out the door of your new home for the next 2 years is greeted with “HELLO BARANG!” And the fresh faced PCV thinks to himself “Oh....hi....? Do I know you?”
Walking to breakfast, all eyes are glued to your face. Politeness abides. Peace Corps Professional. You're new to the area, you want to make a good first impression. On your bike rides and morning runs through the village you wave and give an obligatory “hello” back to the screaming children.

Then you have a bad day; need to bike off some steam. You ignore a “hello” here and there. The “hello” is repeated. And repeated. And repeated. AND REPEATED!!! “Maybe the barang didn't hear me” thinks the screaming child. Scream it louder and longer, with more INTENSITY: “HHHHHEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” The child screams himself hoarse. A mystery “hello” coming from the woods. “What the heeelllll...? Where are you?” You think to yourself “If I can't see you, I can't, no, won't say 'hello' back.”

Four months in to your service, the word “Hello” is now a disgusting and offensive word.

Your first year of service comes and goes. That was not easy. But you made it. And you know what is still disgusting and offensive? The word “Hello.” How has this word not died down already? Why are they still screaming “HEEELLLLLLLOOOOOO!!!!”??? And it's not just in the village. It's on the way to your provincial town. It's in that alley in-between Sorya and P'saa Thmey in Phnom Penh. It's sitting next to you on the bus to Battambang.

The one on the right has the 6th sense



The “hello” contagion is set off by one child – the one with the keenest scent for barang – and so begins the domino effect of the melodically chimed, screeched, and blurted out “HELLOS!” It spreads so quickly, you can't pick it out with the naked eye. There's no way to avoid it. The “hello” contagion travels faster than any viral boob-slip-dick-pic-choreographed-wedding-procession-internet post you've ever seen.

Headphones during your run can't even eliminate the screams. The screaming “hellos” penetrate even the thickest of steel walls, the original Beats by Dre, and the most stubborn of Peace Corps Volunteers. Ignoring the “hellos” will makes it worse, much worse.

During your second year of service you begin to do freelance research and a full on investigation to find the origin behind the word “Hello” in the Kingdom of Wonder. You wonder “the chicken or the egg?.....these kids didn't teach themselves the word 'Hello.' Did they?”

AHA!

That yay at the health center forcibly took that newborns hand and made it wave “bye-bye” at you. “Why is that baby waving goodbye to me? He never even said...hello.” OP! There it is, as you exit the health center “Hello barang!” says the newborn swaddled in five towels and one floral polar-fleece blanket.

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?



This isn't as simple as you originally thought. It is not only the uncontrollable children screaming “Hello!” at you. It's the men drinking at the little shack on the corner “Hello!” It's the high-schoolers biking on their way to school “Hello!” It's the fruit ladies at the market “Hello!” It's sneaking up behind you on a moto “Hello!” There is no escaping the “Hello!” There is no stopping the “Hello!” The “Hello” owns you. You are “Hello's” bitch.

Your body now has a physical, involuntary response to the word “Hello.” Your limbs go numb from sitting too long, your eyes glaze over, dry mouth? Those crackers are making you thirsty. You suddenly get much better at surfing the internet. You can't seem to stop yourself from eating spoonfuls of peanut butter while sitting on your bedroom floor in your underwear. You sob uncontrollably when Aladdin finally frees Genie from the eternal shackles of a life of servitude in a bottle, baby.

With all the energy you can muster after your three-hour-post-lunch-nap, you walk to the market and attempt to educate the three year old standing 2 feet away from you, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed as you get your nails painted. “Nyay 'Hello' m'dong kuut.” (“Say 'Hello' one time only.” You're sure the Khmer translation is not very clear but who cares?) Alas, you know your efforts are lost as the child walks away for a brief moment, returns with nom soam jeg in hand and screams “Hello barang!” with a mouthful of sticky rice. “Hello barang!” from around the shelf of beauty products. “Hello barang!” from behind the trash heap. “Hello barang!” from the fruit stand 100 meters away. Your thoughts jump to “This kid can teleport, I swear” as you trip your way out of the market. “Hello barang!” from the moto riding by with 3 adults and 3 babies “Hello barang!”

Hi.



I wish there was a way to somehow follow the “hello” contagion back to its conception and find that all signs point to Gwyneth Paltrow as the blame but real life ain't that easy, kid.

What I do know is that tucked tightly between each shrieked out “Hello” there is a quiet smile of a white-haired Ta riding by slowly on his bicycle. There's a shy little “Hi” of a young girl with a toothy grin watching you pass her by. Regardless of the “hello” contagion's degrading effect on the psyche of volunteers, there is a silver lining. Cambodian people love foreigners. It's an undeniable truth. If you want to travel to a beautiful country and feel welcomed by the locals, come to Cambodia.

Dog says "Hello" too.

The helplessness of caring

Who...let...the...dogs...out?



My whole life I've been caring. I was that little girl chasing after every stray or loose dog in a desperate attempt to find its master. Sometimes I was successful in my dog rescue mission (especially if the dog lived in the house across the street) and other times I was called back into the house by my (smart) parents. I laugh now, picturing my little girl self if she were time-machined to Cambodia today and saw all of the stray dogs playing chicken with speeding cars. (Actually, most likely they are not stray, just loose dogs because dogs are practically nomadic creatures here. They are not man's best friend, they are home alarm systems or...a special meal.) Little girl Laura would instantly be chasing one mangey dog after the next and then quickly be shipped to the nearest hospital to get her rabies shot and a wound stitched up. And then I wonder “ would little girl Laura learn her lesson after that?” I think once a bleeding heart, forever a bleeding heart no matter how many times that heart is broken.

This bleeding heart has cynical streaks, to say the least but I still care. I care a lot. I wouldn't be a Peace Corps volunteer if I didn't care. I wouldn't want to pursue social work as a career if I didn't care. But I have been challenged. People challenge me. Cambodia challenges me. Cambodia breaks my heart.

The other day, I set off on my regular run through the neighborhood. Running on the shoulder of National Road 3 until I could sneak off to my favorite dirt road where the likelihood of getting pummeled by a motorbike or speeding van filled with 40 passengers was significantly decreased. But not even 1 kilometer into the run I was jolted out of my “running zone” in which I blare my music enough to drown out the screaming “Hellos” and general buzz of village life in rural-ish Cambodia. Across the street, on the opposite shoulder from me was a woman curled up in the fetal position and a bike tossed on its side. Even more jarring was that people were casually biking and driving past this woman without even batting an eye. Schools girls continued giggling and gossiping cheerfully as they rode past her like she was invisible, part of the scenery of any ol' sunsetting day.

take a break and...look at the flowers.



The little girl Laura that wants to save everyone woke up, stopped running, and turned off her music. I don't like disturbances in my workouts but this was not something I could ignore. Why wasn't anyone stopping to help her? I crossed the street and realized who this particular woman was. She had occasionally yelled drunken nonsense at me during previous runs through the village. And not surprisingly, she was drunk again, curled up in a ball on the dirt with eyes wide open but unfocused.

I was slightly wary about approaching her because I don't know what this woman is capable of and had no doubt of her probable impulsivity. Spending three years around people with brain injuries, brain injuries that often led to a lack of impulse control, I've developed a sensitivity to what that looks like. What some people look like when they are on the verge of exploding. I also learned how to remain calm in moments of crisis (or give the impression of calm while inside adrenaline surged through every vein, resulting in what feels like mass destruction in all the important valves of my body.)

Regardless of the potential risk, I approached her, gently spoke to her, asked her if she was okay. She reacted immediately which I took as a good (?) sign. She mumbled some things that I couldn't understand and I asked her where her house was. I said we'd walk to her house together and I helped her up. She could barely stand on her own. She stood up and grabbed me, put her arms around me tightly. Was this a hug? This was the closest a Khmer person had ever been to me, the closest thing to a full on bear hug I'd ever received in this country. And then I thought “wow, this lady is strong.” And then I said it out loud. “Boy, you sure are strong.” Oh god. I'm not panicking at all...

I tried to convince her that we'd walk to her house together. And I thought to myself “Laura, really? You know that if you commit to this, you will be walking or more likely carrying her the 500 meters or so to her house for the next hour. Not to mention her heavy city bike would be carried along with us. This does not seem sensible.” To forfeit my exercise for the day was not something cynical and selfish Laura wanted to do. But a force stronger and more mystifying than cynical and selfish Laura would keep me from acting on my good deed for the day (or let's say good deed of the month.) This woman was unwilling to listen or cooperate with me. After she finished tightly embracing me, she stood back, spat and fell to the ground. Her shoes were off and thrown about so I decided, if anything, we should get her shoes on because being barefooted in Cambodia is frowned upon unless you are a pants-less baby boy.

I helped her up again and placed her shoes in front of her so she could easily slide her feet in. She fell again. She had a thorn in her foot, which she was very upset about but I pulled it out within a second and the shoes were slipped on. Success! We did it! While I struggle to get her up again, one of my favorite taxi drivers rolls by and is telling me to stop what I'm doing. And then I notice the family across the street is watching me with concerned faces and gesturing with their hands (a very Khmer gesture that I've really taken to in which both hands are raised up and twist like they're screwing in two lightbulbs side by side – this gesture magically means “I don't want to have anything to do with it.”) to leave her alone.

The woman, seemingly unwilling and bullheaded, slurred something incoherent to me and I felt helpless. I decided to cross the street again and talk to the concerned family. I've exchanged friendly smiles with each member of this family many times and I have always appreciated their unobtrusiveness, the politeness they've demonstrated to me. The grandfather, sweet man that he is, spoke slowly in English that I should carry on with my run. He grabbed my hands in his and said sincerely “hotpran hotpran hotpran hotpran” (“exercise exercise exercise exercise”) as he mimicked the way arms move when they run, with our hands held tightly together. I told them I was afraid a car would hit her or that she would fall again. I asked if she had family that could take care of her. The grandfather, grandmother, and their grand-daughter collectively told me to just go and run, and that I shouldn't worry about her.

They were more concerned about me than this woman that clearly needed help. And as they were telling me to go and run, my eyes welled up uncontrollably. I turned around at that moment and turned my music back on. Okay. Just keep running. Just keep running. Act like you aren't worried about that woman. She'll be fine. She can barely hold herself up and just tried getting back on her bike and fell again, but she'll be fine. She'll make it home, no problem. Running while on the verge of crying is a strange sensation but I knew it was what I needed to do in order to shake off the shock and cruel feeling I felt all over.

I ran an extra 10 minutes just to get it out of my system. Running gave me time to sort through what had just happened. To understand why it happened. I can only contemplate and hypothesize why from what I know about Cambodia and Khmer culture. One thing I remind myself when I am upset or confused about the way things work here is that Cambodia is still healing from a tumultuous past. Not only that but Cambodia is still experiencing injustices and corruption that render the people powerless.

My tutor once told me that if there is a car accident, most people do not want to help because they are afraid of being blamed later. Car accidents, all over the world as far as I know, generate crowds – gawkers, rubberneckers – because everyone has a little bit of darkness and morbidity tucked into the folds of their brain. I think Cambodia invented rubberneckers because watching car accidents is like a watching a sports event. Everyone stops what they're doing to have a look at the mess. “What? A crowd? Let's go and see what happened then stand uselessly until someone else decides to help.”

Scaredy kitten.



But why are so many people afraid to help? Afraid they'll be blamed? That mentality might stem back to when the Khmer Rouge was in control. It was safer to stay silent. Getting involved in any trouble could get you killed. So many people kept their mouths shut and watched others disappear, even their loved ones.

Another factor could be the under analyzed and even ignored presence of mental illness – which is likely another side effect of the damage the Khmer Rouge had on the country. * One of my first days at the health center back in 2012, the health center director went through record books with me and was proud to say no one sought treatment for mental illness at their health center. Which he believed to be because there was NO mental illness present in our commune of over 15,000 people in 16 different villages. This was difficult for me to swallow considering my own history and also, my minimal knowledge about countries recovering from genocide.
(* Disclaimer: I am only postulating here. I don't claim to know the reason for anything that happens in a country I've only lived in for a year and a half. It could simply be that it is a developing country and these things take time.)

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD.) If Cambodia were anything like America – PTSD diagnoses would be handed out like pieces of Pez candy. But depression or even temporary sadnesses are very hush-hush here and usually not confronted directly. (Generally just not discussed.) I've been challenged with this approach (or lack thereof) to emotions because I am very honest about my issues and want people to know about it because it makes me who I am. Unfortunately, because the topic of depression is avoided, I end up putting on fronts and pretending I'm happy when I'm not – very often, and it's mentally exhausting. So when I think about people in my community, people that survived the Khmer Rouge, children that are being raised by survivors of the Khmer Rouge, I get worried. I can't even imagine what kind of baggage is building up in the brains of some people here. The baggage could very well be getting passed on from one generation to the next, like a family heirloom.

Alcoholism. Is there an elephant in the room? To some people, drinking is a game here. A competition. Some people say “If you don't drink to get drunk, why drink at all?” meaning get shit-faced or go home. So when I saw that woman on the side of the road, when I realized who she was, I was pained by the reality of her situation and the people avoiding her. They write her off, saying she is crazy, a drunkard. And that's that. She is a hopeless case so she is not worth your time, Laura. Keep running. And again, it's interesting that the health center director, my sort-of boss, was so proud to claim zero mental illness in our community and yet the community has “crazy” people.

Not crazy, just Kids in the hood.



I can think of four people that are deemed “crazy” and each “crazy” person is treated differently depending on their state of consciousness. My favorite “crazy” person (I know, I know...it's not good to encourage the label of “crazy” and then to have a favorite “crazy” person is even worse. But I am only human. I have my faults) is a gentleman that I've deemed a Cambodian hipster because he usually bikes (very quickly, actually) around town with a beer in hand, yelling judgments at people. My first encounter with him he was wearing army fatigues, gold spray-painted-untied-army boots, held a dead snake in one hand and said to me “Welcome to America!” He and I have become misfit friends because he speaks better English than a majority of any people that attempt to speak English in my village. And they call him the crazy one. He lived in Texas for 20 years and raised a family there only to divorce and move back to Cambodia. He then disappeared to Russia for five years, and rumor has it, returned fluent in Russian and “crazy.” He is honest and that is what I like about him. He came to the health center once and I asked him how he was, he said he was fine and when I said I was also fine (he didn't ask me) he shot back “I don't care!” I had to laugh. He also remarked once that I was not afraid of him which I think he appreciates.

Not crazy, just charring a snake.



What I am most puzzled by is the amount of tolerance people have for him. One reason is possibly because he is related to very important (read: rich) people in the community (possibly even my host dad somehow. It's really hard to tell who's actually blood-related in Cambodia. We're all related when you really think about it, right? We're all related SOMEHOW. Anyway. Tangent.) Another reason he is tolerated is because he is fairly conscious of his “craziness” and is fairly amusing. People give him beers at parties and just let him ramble, transitioning smoothly from Khmer to English and back again, and, what many people probably don't know, criticizes Cambodia frequently in his ramblings.

Another “crazy” person is a man that walks up and down the national road, back and forth from his small home to the center of town, sometimes barefooted, sometimes smoking a cigarette, sometimes picking up trash and throwing it down again. He wears the same thing everyday, khakis and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He once stopped in front of the health center, stood tall, saluted us, and continued walking. I once ran past his small house and noticed that the yard was impeccably clean – then I saw him walking with a piece of trash to his fence, he threw the trash on his neighbors side of the fence where there laid a huge pile of trash. I have never witnessed him speak before and this is probably why people don't bother to acknowledge him in anyway.

Not crazy, just napping.



The other two “crazy” people are the woman that crashed her bike and a man that is likely suffering from severe alcoholism and PTSD and other symptoms that often go hand in hand with the diseases. What sets these two apart from the former “crazy” people in my community, is that they are not conscious (or don't seem as conscious) of their “craziness”, they are not “funny” when they drink, they are generally inebriated, angry, drooling, inconsolable, potentially violent, and therefore nuisances. They are nuisances that smear the reputation of such a flawless community. So ignore them, treat them like dogs or worse than dogs.

Regardless of the past, I still can't comprehend how humans can ever treat fellow humans like they are less than human; not worthy of full, happy and healthy lives. But this isn't something exclusive to Cambodia, it happens everywhere.

Sometimes I wonder what the world would look like if it only consisted of people that cared too much. And what is the purpose of having people in the world that don't care? I guess there needs to be a balance of good and evil? We can't all be chasing after stray dogs – nothing would ever get done. And we can't all be cold, selfish individuals because maybe we wouldn't even exist if we were?

the long road ahead of us.



The main takeaway from all this wondering and caring is that we as a worldwide community still have a long way to go. Cambodia has a lot to do before it can be the truly wondrous Kingdom it proudly claims to be. The stigma of mental illness still exists in America today regardless of how far we've come and how much we've learned in over half a century. So...perhaps I must give Cambodia a little grace. I alone can't make big differences without support from the community. Just as I realized I couldn't carry a heavily inebriated woman all by myself. Development takes years, decades, to make a significant dent. More people that care too much will continue to sympathize and fall in love with Cambodia and recognize its potential to be wondrous. But this recognition can't only come from the outside, Cambodia needs to recognize its own potential. As well as its faults. Progress can't be made if problems continue to be ignored. Avoiding a problem won't make it go away. And good old confrontation can sometimes trigger positive change and growth.

DA FUNK.

Something's missing.



I don't know if it's the post-vacation-blues, that time of the month, the change in weather (Cambodia's winter is over already? What about this polar vortex everyone is talking about on the internets???), the reality of a PCVs life and being away from home for so long (or all of the above) but I've been in a funk. And it's funky but not in the groovy kind of way.

Selfie on the island?



And let's be totally honest here, the funk began before my exotic vacation to an island and the Cancun-Style-Spring-Break-New Year's Eve celebration that followed. But a strange and mysterious back injury which occurred possibly during an impromptu acrobatic act during said vacation has only aggravated my funk and led me to vices that are both delicious and shameful. I was in grand shape before Christmas but (I'm sure many volunteers can attest to this) being away from home during the holidays makes me feel inadequate and when I feel inadequate, all I want to do is stuff my face. And drink beer. (And hermit myself, but we'll get to that later.) Bad/good? news: when certain people in your village know that you can drink an occasional beer, they will make you drink many occasional beers at one time and then stuff you full of duck meat (AND DON'T FORGET THE RICE!!!!)

After vacations or any trips away from my village, whether short or long, I allot myself one (or two...) days of sleeping all day or watching movies all day or interneting all day, just to reenergize and get back into the zone. The super-awesome-ambitious-volunteer-zone which I still haven't quite yet fully harnessed or mastered. This I did and following my recuperation day I felt jovial and happy to be back in the village. But the next day that feeling disappeared and was replaced with an increased pain in my back and intense desire to not leave my room. (Which reminds me of a shirt I saw a girl at the market wearing “I have the strong desire to crawl back into the womb” WHO IS MAKING THESE SHIRTS!?!? I must know!)

AND WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET INTO THE SUPER-AWESOME-AMBITIONS-VOLUNTEER-ZONE?



A LITTLE BIT OF THIS, A LITTLE BIT OF THAT.



AND I'M IN THE ZONE.



This back pain was only provoked more by my Jillian Michaels 6-week six-pack Abs Workout and hurts all the time now. It hurts to lay down, it hurts when I run, it even hurts when I clear my throat (what? But why?!) So I've had to lay off on my workout routine which is a really big bummer considering how awesome I was doing just a month ago. I've replaced my previous workout routine with watching episodes of Modern Family (I have to admit, I kinda like it. Can I marry Phil please?) and eating Peanut M&Ms in bed. And as much as I appreciate the kindness of my veteran RPCV friends sending M&Ms in packages (Thank you Stewart, Bret, & Ashley! Me heart you), I must say it's really taking a toll on my hot bod. And there's really no way to stop eating M&Ms. You know you're a goner when you open that giant bag. You know you shouldn't do it. You know there's no way in hell you're just eating one handful and then leaving the bag alone until tomorrow. You're going to keep returning to that giant bag a couple times within one 20 minute episode where Gloria and her big boobs and perfect smile are doing something really sweet and surprisingly perceptive.

(Note to friends and family: When I die, bury me in a bed of M&Ms.)

M&M CRISIS.



M&M MELTDOWN.



I watched several episodes of Modern Family at 6AM (when I normally do Jillian), went to the health center as usual, and then went back home as soon as possible to watch more Modern Family and play on the internet before lunch. An email from a friend made me all weepy and for no explicable reason! So to make myself feel better, I tried to make myself look super busy to other people around me. And that meant washing my clothes. (Some people in my village think that I only run and that's my job. Which I'd like to think it is...)
*CONFESSION: I am a spoiled-jerk-volunteer. My host family, they “nek mien” which means “they have” or they rich. In turn, that means they own luxury items such as two Toyota Camrys, a refrigerator, and a washing machine. I'd bargain to say that many volunteers that know this fact about me, loath me just a little bit because I do not have to wash my clothes by hand. Ever. BUT IT'S NOT MY FAULT! BLAME PEACE CORPS! I did not choose to live in this Cambodian mansion. I am not the enemy!

[Insert photo of washing machine here] CAN'T FIND.

(**Americans: next time you look at your pile of dirty laundry and get annoyed because you have to dump it in a washer, shut the little door, push a button, and forget about them for an hour, think, just for a moment, of all the poor Peace Corps Volunteers all around the world that are getting blisters on their hands from hand washing their red-dirt stained clothes once a week. Appreciate, no, WORSHIP this magical machine because it is probably the most magnificent appliance you will ever own.**)

I quietly weeped behind my Tom & Jerry bed sheets because...I don't know why, I felt sorry for myself? Why so weepy? Oh yeah, was it the post-vacation-blues? No, I think I'm over that. That time of the month? Well, yes but whatever, I can cry when I want damnit! Leave me alone!!! The change in the weather? Nah, but as far as I'm concerned, it's perpetually summer here and that can make anyone go a little nutzo. Legit seasons give you something to look forward to or dread, whatevs. So what is it, Laura? Why do you feel this way? Why the funk?

I can't give you a straight answer because I do believe it was F. All of the above. A composition of too many things, making it difficult to really discern why the funk exists.

But let me tell you about this weird natural occurrence that I believe happens to many volunteers. You can wake up in whatever mood – Happy, sappy, annoyed, whatever – and then have one single encounter that can throw you way off of your center. Today I was thrown into the pool where it was between 5ft and 6ft deep which is a little too deep for comfort for a 5'2” person. But I was able to doggie paddle for a while and finally find a place to step flat-footed. (note: figurative pool)

In a normal world, emotions generally stay fairly steady within one given day. But in the day in the life of a PCV, your emotions are a cascading roller-coaster that is falling apart while still moving forward and upside-down at 60mph. You can be laughing one second and then crying the next minute because your favorite breakfast lady wasn't at the market and your flip-flop fell off when you were trying to get moving on your bike. It doesn't take a lot. But even if you did cry an hour ago, another encounter might flip you right back on track on that rickety old roller-coaster.

For me, it took a moment of cross-cultural sharing with my neighbors. They're daughter is getting married on Saturday which I am both looking forward to but also not looking forward to at all because a wedding next door means no silence for approximately 3 days. They asked me if weddings were the same in America and I did not have the words or the energy to explain in Khmer how they are very different so I grabbed my computer instead. I showed them pictures of my friend Caitlin's wedding because her wedding was classic but also very indicative of America's uniqueness. Many Khmer people have their assumptions of America and I wanted to show them how diverse it is. Sharing the wedding photos turned into an hour long slide show which I really enjoyed. I think my neighbors did too but it's sometimes hard to tell these things.


Caitlin & Hubby Sugi Dancing like champions.




And then I rewarded myself with more episodes of Modern Family and later, a run through the village. Fortunately, my back pain is lessening and during my run positive thoughts flowed through my brain. I was reminded that it doesn't take a lot to connect with people in my village and I have to stop being so afraid to do it. I have to stop watching so much TV (after I finish this last disc) and stop eating so many M&Ms (once I'm done with that last bag...) and go outside and just hang out with people. Don't be such a dope, Laura!

Now get the FUNK outta here! I love you.